


We Three Kings

by cosmic_medusa



Series: We Three Kings [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Addiction, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 12:05:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18141962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_medusa/pseuds/cosmic_medusa
Summary: Cas, a doctor, falls in love with the mechanic, Dean Winchester. He understood, early on, that this meant adopting his younger brother, Sam. He didn't, however, count on all the loss that would follow the Winchesters, the addiction that would trouble Sam, or the problems his own family would cause following his commitment to the boys.





	1. Chapter 1

Cas lived with the phone ringing in the middle of the night.  
  
In college it was one of his brothers, drunk and swearing, or his mother, crying about the drinking and swearing. In med school it was friends panicking over papers or exams, then doctors summoning him onto emergency shifts. Then it was just the business of being on call.

Then it was Dean. Then Sam. Then Dean calling about Sam. Then Sam calling sobbing for Dean.

Cas just lived with it. So when the phone rang on his night off, rolled over into the empty space where Dean's body should be--his boyfriend had taken to passing out on the couch since he'd been going to bed sober--he had it in hand, receiver enroute to his ear, before he’d even fully awakened.

 "It's Cas," he mumbled.

 Heavy, desperate breathing, a gulping, hitching swallow--Sam. "Cas, I--I need--"

 "I'll get him." He rolled out of bed, feet cold on the hardwood floor.

"I'm--sorry, Cas, I didn't want to wake you. I know I--"

 "Easy, Sam. Deep and easy, like we practiced, huh?" He padded down the hall, drifting toward the blue light indicating the TV was still on. "Are you somewhere safe?"

 Sam's breathing sped up. "I need help," he sobbed, and Cas felt a familiar ache in his chest.

 "Okay," he said, softening his voice. "Don't worry. I'll put Dean on, you tell him where you are, what you need, and we'll be on our way. Sam, are you safe?"

"I'm at Rosemount."

Oh. No. Rosemount meant one thing: relapse. "Okay. Let me get Dean."

 "It's not what you--Cas, I didn't--please believe me, I--no one believes me, Cas--"

"We trust you," Cas said firmly. He hated how good at lying he'd gotten. It helped that his boyfriend would have made a great sociopath, if it weren’t for the bouts of crippling guilt and grief and worry. "Here, let me get him."

Cas pressed the mouthpiece into his shoulder and shook his unconscious boyfriend’s shoulder. "Dean. Dean."

"Um." Dean swiped at his hand. "Lay off."

 "It's Sam."

"Sam?"

"On the phone."

"Phone?" He opened his eyes and squinted at the television's light. "Jesus--what time is it?"

"Just after one."

"And--shit." He snatched the cordless and bolted upright. "Sammy?"

Cas had long ago been able to judge what level of crisis Sam was calling with based on the level of calm in Dean's face--the more stoic his boyfriend became, the deeper shit Sam was laying on him.

"Hey, hey, hey! Calm down," Dean said firmly. "You're safe?" His eyes flicked to Cas as he mouthed 'Rosemount.' Cas just nodded. "Sammy, what--okay. Calm--" He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Sammy, listen to me. I can't understand you. I want you to breathe, and speak slow. We'll figure it out, okay? I'm not gonna get mad." He waited a few more beats. "It was--what?" Cas reached out and laid a calm, steady hand on his boyfriend's shoulder. "Alright, alright. Listen--I'm on my way. They draw blood yet?" A beat. "Good. You just sit tight, I'll be there in a few." Another beat. "Sammy--deep breaths. Let me get there and we'll figure it out. You stay put you hear? I'll have my phone on." He waited again. "Attaboy. Be there soon." He hit end. "Rosemount," he said like a curse.

"I didn't ask what he took."

"He said nothing, not on purpose. I couldn't tell what he said after that."

"C'mon," Cas got to his feet. "I'm driving."

"You don't need to."

"It's raining. I know how you drive."

Dean sighed and stared toward the phone. "He's been eight months clean, Cas. I thought--"

Cas stepped forward and gripped his boyfriend's arms. "We don't know what happened," he said firmly, "and even if he slipped," Dean winced, "he got himself straight to the clinic and called. That's miles from where we were this time last year."

"I just...want him to be okay." Dean's breath hitched. Cas pulled him in and rested their foreheads together. "Better than okay. I want him to--be happy."

"Y'know, I think he wants the same for you?" Cas said gently. He kissed Dean's cheek. "C'mon. Let's get to him, figure out what we've got."

"Cas--"

"I believe pants are required in all public places these days."

"You're not driving my car."

Cas just grinned and took the stairs two at a time.

"Goddamnit, you are not driving my car!"

"Shotgun shuts his mouth!"

"You--" Dean pounded up the stairs after him, "Goddamnit!"  
  


**Then**

Cas met Dean Winchester when he drove in on two flat tires to John & Jay's auto mechanics. He'd done three shifts in a row and was still wearing his scrubs, standing dazedly by his car as the eternally patient mechanic asked what the problem was, when his last oil change was, and when the car had to be re-inspected.

"Dude...you need a nice beer, a good lay, and about twenty hours sleep. Not necessarily in that order."

"I told four people someone they loved was going to die today," Cas had said, still dazed, "and I was so tired I didn't even care."

Dean stopped and stared at him, then reached for his cellphone and made a quick call. Cas leaned against his car's window and felt the earth spin. He wanted to sleep for a month.

"Got a cab on its way. Car's got to stay here. She needs a tune up." He laid a gentle hand on the hood. "Don't you, baby? Daddy saving lives is no reason to ignore you."

"I've got auto-insurance."

"Congratulations. My next call won't have to be to the police."

Cas was too tired to figure out what he meant. He collapsed into the cab and woke up in front of his apartment--no memory of giving the cabbie his address. Or the twenty-bucks (eight dollar tip) to get him home. It was only when he returned, two days later, that he discovered Dean had run his plates on the police scanner in the back and done it all.

"Don't worry," he told Cas when he picked up his car--two new tires, fresh oil, new fan-belt, souped-up brake-lines, "she's still chugging. Good to get on a doctor's good side," he said with a wink.  
  
Cas knew the practical side of time. He knew the normal pulse rates from infants to the elderly. He knew the amount of electricity to feed a dying heart, the amount of oxygen to pump into a defective lung, the amount of countless drugs to bolster countless immune systems. He could say them half-asleep and bone-weary, as he so often felt in the darkest hours of his shifts. 

With Dean, none of it seemed to matter. It took Cas a week to ask him for a beer. It took less than two hours for him to fall in love.  
  


**Now**

"I should've made him come live with us."

Cas guided Dean's beloved Impala toward Rosemount at a slow and steady pace that he knew only drove Dean's agitated nerves toward their breaking point. He'd long ago stopped telling him that smashing the car into a ditch or a tree would do nothing for Sam's fragile sanity, and instead learned to deal with Dean's increasing agitation by braking completely at every stop sign and intersection, demonstrating by example that there would be no helping Sam if Dean didn’t look out for himself.

"I mean it...he shouldn't be living with a bunch of ex-junkies. They're just going to drive each other crazy moaning about how they can't have what they want. It's enabling."

"Dean, you remember what Missouri said?"

"Fuck Missouri. She hated me the second I walked in the room."

"We have to let Sam make his own choices."

"He's at Rosemount, Cas! He wouldn't be at Rosemount if he'd been with us!"

"You don't know that."

"You sound like _her_."

"She's been an addiction counselor for thirty some years, Dean. I trust her. _Sam_ trusts her." Cas took a deep breath and braked completely, ignoring his boyfriend’s low growl. "Besides, Sam's the one who opted for the halfway house. She said he was ready to move on, remember?"

"Which is why he should have moved in with _us_."

"He didn't want you to feel responsible for monitoring him," Cas said gently. "It was a gracious, appreciative gesture, Dean. Don't make him question it."

"It's my _job_ to monitor him!"

"It's not. Sam needs to monitor himself. Re-learn to take care of himself. Remember?"

Dean set his jaw and stared straight ahead. "Who the hell's side are you on?"

"Don't ask me that."

"Really, Cas. I'm the one whose name's on the lease next to yours. I'm the one you're fucking. Who you supposedly 'love'."

Cas took a slow, deep breath. "And all the times you made clear to Sam that you love him, and are on his side, while making him face something he didn't want to...that just gets washed away between us?"

"It's not the same."

"It's _exactly_ the same." He braked for a red light, the rain glittering gold and red in the drops on the windshield. "Sam can't rely on you to be his conscious. He needs to have faith in himself, in his own strength. More importantly--he needs you to have faith in him."

Dean's eyes glowed green in the "go" light. "He's at Rosemount," he managed, voice cracking.

"So we go, we talk to him. Find out what happened. Let him talk, and listen."

"Goddamnit, Cas, I have always listened! I have done everything--talking, not talking, listening, making notes, reading, researching, Al-Anon, Nar-anon--" his breath hitched. Cas lay a hand on his boyfriend's thigh.

"He's your brother," he said softly. "But I love him too."

Dean didn't answer. Cas spotted the sign for Rosemount and set his blinker.

"I'm on your side first," Cas murmured. "Always. But the man I fell in love doesn’t always do the easy thing when protecting those he loves. I want to do the same."

Dean didn’t answer, but a moment later his hand covered the one Cas had laid on his thigh and pressed gently. Cas didn't miss the light hitch in his breath--so much like Sam's, but unlike Sam's, rarely, if ever surfacing.

"Thanks," Dean managed. Cas smiled and pulled into the Rosemount Clinic’s parking lot.

 

**Then**

When Cas met Sam, the younger Winchester had been a junior in college, brilliant and beaming and with one of the most beautiful women Cas had ever seen latched onto his arm. Sam was so different from his brother it was amazing to think they'd grown up in the same house, let alone as close as they were. Dean had made no secret of the fact that he hadn’t liked school, though he’d tested extremely well and proved to have a high IQ. He’d also been unapologetic of the fact he’d dropped out at sixteen and earned his GED two years later. He’d spoken of it without shame, but certainly without pride.

But when he spoke of Sam...he’d _glow_. He bragged shamelessly about his little brother’s off-the- charts SAT scores, his 4.0 average, the incomparable scholarships, his dreams of becoming a lawyer. And Sam looked shy, uncomfortable with the praise, but when Dean was looking elsewhere would stare at his brother with the kind of pure hero-worship kids usually outgrew around the time they learned Santa Claus was a farce.

It took one meeting with both Winchesters for Cas to realize that being in love with Dean meant accepting Sam as his new little brother. He didn't need the history he later got, with time (their mother dying far too young, their father's alcoholism and long absences going God knows where to do God knows what, Sam being beaten almost to death the night he received his full ride to college, Dean being beaten nearly to death three, four, maybe five times since he could remember all while desperately trying to distract their father from Sam), to realize that Dean was not the Dean he loved without Sam, and Sam was not the sweet, gentle, whip-smart young-man he'd grown into without Dean. Given his own family's tendency to launch an all-out war the second the slightest difference of opinion arose, watching Sam and Dean bicker and tease and even raise their voices, only to end up slouched on the couch drinking beer and laughing over some game or stupid sci-fi flick, made him ache for his own brothers.

Sometimes, late, after a few beers and a lot of laughing, Sam would fall asleep and sink past his perch on the couch to land on Dean's shoulder, and Dean would lean his cheek on Sam's dark hair and smile slightly at the TV, and it wasn't hard to imagine the kids they were, and love all the more the complicated, determined, loyal men they'd become.

Cas loved them both, loved the life they created, free of questions and judgments, free of fights and swearing and slamming doors, free of booze and bounced checks. And then, snug and spooned around Dean, the phone rang at three AM, and Sam was half-mad on the other end, telling them that his home had burned down and his beautiful girlfriend was dead. 

  
                                                                                                    
  **Now**

The clinic was overly-heated, although all the patients--Cas forced himself not to think _junkies_ \--were huddled in coats and hoodies and, some, even blankets. Waiting on methadone, bloodwork, or a ride to their next hit. Cas didn't care. All he cared about was the impossibly tall boy in the corner, head on his knees, brown hoodie well past its expiration date, rocking and shaking and looking impossibly young for his twenty-four years.

Dean sank into a chair beside his brother and brushed a hand over his hair. "Hey, Sammy," he murmured.

"Hey Dean," Sam's voice drifted up from his huddle.

"Sorry if we were slow to get here. Cas drove."

Sam raised his red, teary eyes. His face was a pale and exhausted and drawn as Cas had seen it after the immediate withdrawal, and he had to draw a breath to steady himself before offering Sam a smile.

"You've been in a car with him when he's worried. The speedometer climbs and climbs..."

Sam offered a weak smile before a shiver gripped him. Dean's hand continued to pet his brother's hair.

"They take blood?" Sam nodded. "Urine?" Sam nodded again. "Results?"

"Pending."

Cas crouched in front of Sam and laid a reassuring his hand on his knee. Dean leaned a little closer and lowered his voice. "What happened, Sammy?" he murmured.

Sam rubbed his eyes on his sweatshirt. "I came home around eight," he said slowly. "I was tired...went upstairs to read and fell asleep. Woke up at eleven and I was starving. Went downstairs and pulled some chicken out of the fridge, but it tasted like shit." He glanced around nervously, as if cursing would prove his weakness or addiction. Dean continued to smooth his hair. "I dumped a bunch of salt on it. Couldn't taste it, so I added more." His breath hitched, and his chin hit his knees again. Cas rubbed his thumb lightly over the top of his friend's shin. "I was so damn stupid..."

"They'd mixed it in the shaker?" Cas asked calmly. Sam closed his eyes as a tear slipped from underneath.

"Said they were prepping when the house-leader walked in early. Dumped their stash in the salt as a cover." His breath hitched harshly. "I swear I didn't know until I started to feel it. I made myself puke...drank water...but it was too late. I got straight here, but no one believed me." His jaw clenched, hard. "They want to put me back in lock-down. I can't...I can't...I've got a job. I got a _job_ , Dean," he pleaded, grabbing his brother's wrist. Dean nodded slowly. "I was...I was clean. I thought I was just...eating a bad dinner..." his voice cracked and his face disappeared beneath his hands. Cas glanced to his boyfriend and recognized, all too clearly, the look of guilt: Sam lied, yes. Sam had lied about money, about his whereabouts, about his friends, and about the drugs he took. But Sam had lied with defiance, nastiness, and confidence. This--the shaking, the sobbing, the defeat--was no lie.

Leave it to Dean to feel guilty for doubting a brother who'd lied too many times to count because, for once, he was telling the truth.

"You did the right thing coming here once you knew," Cas soothed. "And calling us."

"They want to lock me up." Sam's eyes were huge, damp, brown. "Please don't let them lock me up. I didn't do it on purpose. I just want an extra bit of valium. I threw it up, I swear. I just...Cas, I need valium."

Cas rubbed his friend's knee. "Let me go see," he soothed. He stood and made toward the nurses' window, letting Sam sag into Dean, clutch at his shirt the few times he did when he was sick and battling the sickness, cuddling against his brother like he was a child once more. Dean leaned forward, an arm around his shoulders, lips moving in words to soft to hear, words meant only and always only, for Sam.

Cas stepped behind the nurse's station and flashed his credentials. "Sam Winchester's bloodwork/urinalysis. Is it ready?'

The nurse shook her head. "Doctor, with all due respect..."

"I'd like to see it as soon as it's done."

"It could be until tomorrow--"

"If that's true, than Mr. Winchester doesn't need to return to a locked-down facility. Correct?"

The nurses exchange glances that would look judgmental to anyone else. To him, it just looks tired--wondering- _if-one-less-patient-makes-a-difference_ -tired. As someone who works equally marathon shifts, he hears what she's saying. Hears that she, and her friends, have families—children, aging mothers, boyfriends or husbands, sisters and brothers, who demand their time, their unconditional love and attention and financial support—while here they sit, behind the desk while addict after addict, men and women who have made their bed a million times and rolled happily in it, filter in and challenge every tiny bit of compassion they've ever had.

He feels their exhaustion in his chest, in his knees, in his eyes, in the slump of the shoulders of the man he loves as he attempts to sooth the involuntary shakes of his addict brother.

"Give us an hour," one says, and leans over her keyboard. And he hears her tired resentment that she still feels compassion.

He returns to Sam--shivering, teary, pale, Sam--and Dean, the strong, stoic, equally exhausted man he loves.

"Shhh," Dean murmurs, breathing into his brother's hair. And Cas remembers.  
  


**Then**

Dean and Cas bolted out of the Impala and raced to Sam's side. Sam, who stared up at the flames beating at the apartment's facade, who rocks in their arms but doesn't really see them. Sam, who lets them answer his questions and drive him to their apartment and tuck him into their guest bed, all while they sooth and murmur, trying to bolster the young man, trying to remind him of the days they spent laughing and warm and together.

 Sam came home in tears.   
  
Then reeking of booze, smoke, pot.

Then with dilated pupils, swaying on his feet.   
  
And then, not at all.   
  
Sometimes for days.   
  
And then, finally, when the school put him on academic probation, Sam dropped out.   
  
Oddly enough, the time away seemed to do him good. He got a job at a bookstore, something low stress, but with full benefits. He stopped staying out to insane hours and his pupils remained normal, although Dean told Cas privately that he wished Sam wouldn’t drink so much. He could hardly accuse him when his own glass was almost always full and besides, Sam began handing them a rent check, although neither of them had ever asked for it.;

Then John Winchester drove his truck into a semi, full of two-fifths of whiskey and a ten-pack of beer.

Dean drank himself to sleep for weeks.

Sam lay in the guestroom crying and crying and alone.

Cas held his unconscious boyfriend and tried not to cry as his adopted little brother wept through the wall. For the first time, he began to wonder if he’d leapt off a sinking ship, only to land in a sea he couldn’t possibly swim.  
  


**Now**

A counselor approached. Sam stiffened, a shaky hand tangling in his brother’s coat. Cas laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“Sam Winchester?” she asked. Sam nodded. “I’m with the Outpatient program. I’ve reviewed your file, and your chart. You’ve tested positive for some fairly strong heroine derivatives, indicating you’ve ingested a fairly pure version. Given your history, I’d suggest we sign you back into inpatient to monitor the pending withdrawal.”

“The dose was diluted,” Dean said, daring her to challenge him.

“Yes, but given his history with drugs and alcohol abuse, and considering he’s on some high doses of psychotropic medication, a short period of withdrawal is to be expected, and it’s best if it’s done under a doctor’s supervision. And, of course, out of the way of any available supply.”  
  
Sam let out a deep, gut-wrenching sob. Dean moved in, pulling him close as his brother reached up and clutched at him desperately.

"Please don't send me away," Sam sobbed. "Dean, please. I'm so sorry. Don't send me away."

"Shh," Dean murmured, " No one's locking you up. No one's sending you away."

"I didn't mean to," Sam pleaded, clutching his brother. "I was _clean_."

"I know you were. I'm not mad." Dean stroked softly over Sam’s dark head.

“May I have a word with you?” Cas asked. The counselor nodded, leading him slightly down the hall. “Listen,” he began, “he’s worked really, really hard—“

“I understand that. I also know how common relapse is. Especially for someone with his history.”

“He said he didn’t know.”

“Addicts will say all kinds of things to stay within access of their supply.”

“He’s not lying.”

The counselor sighed. “Sir...I’ve been in this business a long, long time. Patients aren’t the only ones who can be in denial. No one wants to believe someone they love is lying, but—“

“He’s not. Believe me. ”

“Fine. Let’s say he’s not. He still needs to be under medical supervision while he combats this. We’ll contact his primary therapist and psychiatrist. He’ll have group and support available.”

“He needs his brother.”

“I’ll give you a visiting schedule.”

Cas looked away, than drew a slow breath. “Would it count against his progress if we took him home?”

“Sir, I can’t allow him, in good conscious, to leave without a doctor’s supervision—“

“I’m a doctor.” Her eyebrows rose. “I can present you with my full credentials. I would like to know if it would count against him to undergo withdrawal under my supervision instead of the program’s?”

She sighed. “We can’t force anyone to sign in. In fact, we discourage it. If a patient doesn’t want recovery, we can’t give it to them.”

“He wants it. I want to help give it to him.”

She gives a sharp nod. “I can see that. But I have to acknowledge this was against my recommendation. It won’t count against him, but it won’t endear him either.”

“I just want him to have options.”

“Then present your credentials and you can obtain his charts.”

Cas takes a deep breath as she walks off. He can’t fault her for her quick, sharp voice, or her disbelief—he knows firsthand how slippery addicts can be. And he knows how it sounds that he’s willing to vouch for one.

But he also knows Sam and Dean. And he’s willing to risk himself for them.

He approaches the brothers slowly. Sam is shaking, swiping frantically at his eyes, nodding at Dean’s soft murmurs. 

"Sam," Cas said gently. "Listen. I've looked over your chart. What you'll go through will be unpleasant, but it's not dangerous. If you'd like," he said, turning his eyes to meet his boyfriend's, "you can come home with us. We'll get you through it."

Dean smiled slightly as Sam turned his big, damp, puppy-dog eyes to Cas. "With you? But..."

"Just a day or two, and this'll be out of your system. We'll look after you."

"What do you say, Sammy?" Dean murmured, petting his head. Sam's bottom lip shook.

"I...can't. I...it's not your...fault." He sat up, wiping his eyes, trying hard to look brave. "No. I should sign in and--" his voice hitched.

"Sam, you don't have to," Cas soothed. "It's just as hard for us to know you're hurting. We'd like to have you home, to look after you. I'll monitor all your vitals and meds. We'll pass the time quickly."

Sam’s wide brown eyes looked up at him, then to his brother. Dean smiled.

“How ‘bout it?” he asked cheerfully.

“I—” Sam looked from the nurse to his brother to Cas. “But—”

“There’s nothing here that we can’t do for you,” Cas said. Sam met his eyes, and Cas could read the unspoken _why_? in them. “Won’t it help to be with us?”

Sam leaned a little harder into his brother, and nods.  
  


**Then**

The alcohol disappears. Beer, wine, whiskey: whatever it is, it doesn't last between the Winchesters.

Sam begins to reek of pot. Dean passes out on their bed before nightfall. Cas does his best to check their pulses through the night, terrified they'd stop breathing at the same time.

"Cas," Gabe tells him, "bro, I love you, but you can't save everyone. Even _you_ said that."

That night, Cas pushes himself against Dean’s back, holds him close, and says gently, “My brother Gabriel thinks you and Sam are going down a road I won’t be able to stop. I’m beginning to think that that might be true.”

Dean stiffens completely. The next morning, he’s out of bed before any of them, makes breakfast, packs Cas a lunch, and has dinner ready for all of them. He throws himself back into work, tends to Sam, and makes love with Cas on their nights off.

Sam's pupils stay dilated, but then he meets Madison, and suddenly the empty table is complete and they're laughing again, eating dinners, watching bad TV, Sam talking about finishing his degree. He and Dean talk about taking a vacation, taking time for just the two of them, maybe even getting papers to make everything they shared official. Cas felt a whole new sense of peace, proof that he had judged the Winchester right, that they were capable of weathering the bad times and enjoying the good.

Then the phone rings, near 3:00 a.m., he and Dean tangled, naked and together.

Madison'd been shot in the back of the head in a random mugging.

Sam slit his wrists with so many drugs in his system the lab wouldn’t be able to sort them.

Dean cried all the way to the emergency room. 

 

**Now**

Cas sets up the pull-out couch.

Dean guided his trembling brother forward, coaxed him on his back, even as he wouldn't release his elder's brother's shirt.

"We got you," Dean murmured. Cas retreated to the kitchen to grab supplies. He could Dean's voice, low and gruff, interspersed with Sam's gasps and hitches of pain. He returned to find Dean removing Sam's shoes and hoodie, pulling the blankets around his brother before sinking beside him.

"Dean," Sam gasped. "It's getting worse."

"Cas?"

"Here." Cas plugged in a heat pad and passed a glass of lukewarm water over to Dean. "Little sips, Sam."

"I--I need valium."

"Not for four more hours."

"Cas--" Cas stuck his quick-temp thermometer in Sam's ear and hit the button.

"You're not getting any more until it's time, Sam."

Sam let out a garbled cry and rolled, balling up tight. Dean quickly grabbed his brother's shoulders and squeezed.

"Easy, easy--you gonna be sick?"

Sam let out a guttural moan of pain as his body began to wrack. Dean looked wide-eyed at Cas, who cranked the heat pad up to ten and slid his hands into the curled ball of Sam to gently press it against his friend's stomach.

"It's normal," he assured Dean. Sam's hand flew out and grasped Dean's shirt, fisting him closer.

"Help me," he sobbed.

"M'right here," Dean murmured, resting a hand on his brother's face. "It's gonna pass, Sammy. You remember."

"Can't--can't do it again." He spasmed once more, drawing Dean down further. "Can't, I can't, please, need--" he gagged, choked, "Dean, help me!"

 "I'm here, I'm here," Dean's eyes were damp as he stretched out on his side, letting his brother curl into him. "I gotcha. You're not alone this round."

"I need--something--Cas--please--"

 Cas adjusted the heatpad and wiped Sam's sweaty brow with a warm washcloth. "I know it hurts, but it won't get nearly as bad as before. If we do it together, one straight shot, you come out clean. No methadone withdrawal, no attacks coming down from Valium. Few hours with us and you wake up good as new."

 Sam whimpered, drew up his arms, and curled against his brother’s hip. Dean eased onto the sofa bed, an arm around his back, murmuring “okay, alright, it’s okay, it’s alright,” over and over and over.

 “It’s not fair,” Sam sobbed, sounding so young Cas’ heart threatens to break.

“I know it’s not, bud,” Dean murmured. “I know.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Then**

Dean and Cas sat dutifully by Sam’s bedside until he woke, disoriented, dehydrated, and clearly heartbroken his attempt to die had been a failure. He’d refused to speak, even to Dean, who went through every trick in the big brother handbook to get something out of him.  
  


When the doctors told them he needed to stay in the hospital to undergo counseling, Sam signed himself out against medical orders. Dean returned from his brief sojourn to coffee to find his brother’s bed empty and called Cas in a panic.

After that, there was no turning back.

Sam showed up randomly, only to crash on their sofa. Dean tried coaxing, tried bribing, tried _screaming_ , but nothing prevented his brother from growing thinner, paler, and disappearing.

Dean and Cas found cash gone from their wallets. They found beer and wine and whiskey gone from their cabinets. They found empty dime bags and syringes in their trash cans.

Cas had held Dean on the rare occasions he'd cried. Rubbed his back, murmured platitudes, promised to right the universe. But somewhere along the way, he could no longer bring himself to say _everything will_ _be fine_ when Dean confessed his terror that his brother would die.   
  


**Now**

Cas winced at the sound of Sam retching for the fourth time in a row. Dean crouched behind him in the downstairs bathroom, one hand clenching his forehead to keep him from smashing his forehead on the porcelain, the other resting on his shoulder.

“Didn’t—” Sam heaved—“even get the—” he coughed, hard, and spit into the bowl—“fun of a damn—high.”

“Shove it,” Dean muttered. Sam groaned and spit a few more times, then sat back, weakly. Cas handed a glass of water to Dean, who got Sam to spit and drink.

“M’cold,” Sam shivered. Dean had Sam’s favorite brown hoodie on hand, and helped him into it. A half hour ago Sam had been moaning for ice because he claimed to be burning up. Now he yanked his sweatshirt close and shivered as if against a fierce winter wind. 

“Think you could lay down?” Dean asked. Sam nodded. Dean helped him to his feet, a reassuring hand on his brother’s chest when Sam swayed, then helped him the few feet from the small downstairs bathroom to the pullout sofa. Sam flopped onto it, still shaking, eyes anxiously tracking his brother’s movements.

“Dean?”

“Just popping into the kitchen, Sammy,” he said, casually, but with a small, reassuring smile in his brother’s direction. “Grab some of that red crap you like, okay?”

“Are you mad at me?”

Dean sighed and glanced at Cas. Cas squeezed his boyfriend’s arm lightly. “I’ll grab us all something to drink.” He didn’t miss the relief in Sam’s face, or the appreciation in Dean’s. When Sam’s anxiety hit its peaks, he often convinced himself that Dean was not only mad, but fully prepared to abandon him. It tried Dean to the edges of his patience, and, though he never admitted it, Cas knew it hurt him terribly that, no matter how steadfast his devotion, Sam allowed his mind to convince him that Dean would give him up.  
  
In their small, cozy kitchen, he pulled down two glasses and filled them with cold water from their Brita filter, then found another glass and poured in some Gatorade Fruit Punch with lots of ice for Sam. For whatever reason, it was the only thing he'd drink when he was sick--he claimed water was "too salty" (although Gatorade had significantly more sodium)--and any other flavor was too "chemically" (although the young man had been clogging his veins with illegal chemicals for months). After his admission to Rosemount, Dean and Cas always kept a supply on hand, and had a bottle or two chilling in the fridge in case Sam stopped by and needed it. 

When he returned to the livingroom Sam had rolled away from Dean, forehead on his arm, breathing hard. Dean crouched over him, a steady hand on his brother’s back, talking in a soft, steady stream.

“Sam?” Cas asked softly. “Can you try to drink something?”

The brown head shook a weak ‘no.’ Cas felt like an interloper when Dean leaned down and spoke softly and, seconds later, Sam raised his head and took the glass of Gatorade with shaky fingers.

“Sit up,” Dean scolded lightly, and Sam obeyed, managing a few small sips before his hand seemed to go limp. Dean quickly caught the glass and passed to it back to Cas, then stretched out alongside Sam, propping himself partially up on pillows while Sam curled tightly.

"What's the name of that song?" Cas asked. “Brown paper packages tied up with strings..."

The Winchesters turned and glared at the exact same time, so in-sync they could be twins. Cas can't help but grin. "C'mon. Sam, if this were a movie, you'd be like Dean always says--'emo.'" Sam and Dean snort, yet again, as if on cue. Cas clears his throat dramatically. "When the dog bites, when the bee stings..."

"Sorry, Cas, but I don't remember some perky little British chick whirling around singing 'when withdrawal from heavy-duty-illegal-opiate-narcotic-substances-kicks in," Dean smirked, hand rubbing a reassuring circle on his brother's back.

“Fine. Favorite things—spoken.”

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly. Me first. Warm towels. Sam?”

Sam’s breath hitched as a shudder gripped him. “You don’t want to know,” he grumbled.

“Dean?”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Fine, back to me. Coffee, first thing. Sam?”

“Ugh,” he moaned.

“Dean?”

Dean looked at him over Sam’s dark head, irritated. “My car,” he huffed. Cas smiled.

“Rainy Sundays.”

“The smell of my car.”

“Saturday’s off.”

“Driving my car.”

“Breakfast for dinner.”

“Gassing up my car.”

“Pizza on a graveyard shift.”

“Listening to music while cruising around in my car.”

“Patients going home healthy.”

“Cleaning—”

“Shut--up about the--damn--car,” Sam moaned. Dean grinned and thumped his brother’s shoulder.

“I will if you’ll think of one.”

“Can’t.”

“Fine. Cleaning my car.”

“Dean’s hamburgers,” Cas said.

“Eating my hamburgers in my car.”

“My chicken marasala.”

Dean made a face. “Tuning up my car.”

“Christmas trees.”

“Getting fuel for my baby under the Christmas tree and putting it in my car.”

“I’m going to kill you—” Sam shuddered—"both. And put the--bodies in--the trunk of--your-- God--damn car."

“C’mon, Sammy. Just one, teeny, weeny, _legal_ thing.”

Sam was quiet for almost a full minute. Then, so soft Cas almost missed it, he said: “cold rootbeer.”

Dean beamed at his boyfriend. Cas smiled back. “Donuts in the coffee room.”

“Rock hits count-downs during work hours,” Dean said. Sam was quiet again. Then:

“Watching bad--scary movies with--Dean.”

“See?” Dean proclaimed. “Someone appreciates me.”

“He doesn’t watch them, he _shouts_ at them,” Cas protested. Sam smiled.

“That’s why it’s—” another shudder, “—funny. He gets so—involved. Even if we’ve seen it—before. He—yells like—he can—change it.”

"If they'd _listen_ I could. 'Look, there's an alien-serial killer on the loose who hides in pitch dark-alleyways, and my best friend just screamed and vanished. I have no weapon, no defense skills, and I can't see a goddamn thing. Should I call the police? Ambulance? Run to the nearest, well-lit location and ask a nice store manager for help? No. I'll stroll on down the damned black alley, tentatively calling said-friends' name, all the while breathing loud enough to ensure I can be located by any minimally functional human being within a four mile-radius."

"Like--you'd--leave—me—or--Cas--in- a--dark--alley," Sam teased.

"You're Goddamn right I would. Not leaving my baby an orphan."

"Here I thought I loved a loyal man," Cas said.

"Loyalty stops where the dark alley begins."

"I love when you get romantic."

Sam laughed softly. "Got--another. Favorite."

"Shoot," Dean grinned.

"When--me and Cas--team up on--Dean."

"Which is totally uncalled for, by the way. You two wouldn't even know each other if it weren't for my stunning good looks and superior brothering."

 ****"Well, I second Sam's favorite," Cas said.

"Fine. My favorite is when my dork little brother and my equally geeky boyfriend fall asleep on the couch and leave me control of the remote."

Sam swallowed, hard. Cas reached behind him and brought the Gatorade over, letting Dean guide the glass to his brother's lips. Sam drank slowly, thanking them softly while Cas set the cup back down.

"I liked when--Jess used to--team up on--me with--Dean," he managed, voice wavering slightly.

"I second that," Dean said, voice calm and rock solid. He glanced at Cas, who kept their gazes locked.

"I liked when the four of us spent Sundays watching a game and having dinner," he admitted.

"I liked when Jess made us all dress up for Halloween," Dean said.

"I liked when--she called you--both to come over when I--was stressed and- studying and--then made--me take a--break."

"I liked when the four of us went to the movies."

"I liked that Jess, like me, would _talk_ at the movies."

"I liked--that you--and--Jess ate all the--popcorn."

"I liked that they'd make us take them out for burgers _after_ they ate all the popcorn."

"I liked that Jess made Sammy eat more than rabbit food."

"I--liked that--you and--Jess were--the girlfriends," Sam teased. Dean swore. Cas grinned.

"I like that Dean's _still_ the girlfriend."

"You wish I was--"

"Too much--information!" Sam shouted, as much as he could shout. Dean and Cas exchanged a glance, and even Sam smiled, and then a sharp, vicious tremor rocked him, and Sam's fingers tangled in Dean's shirt, and Cas pressed the heat pat against the vibrating muscles of his friend's abdomen, and the two pressed close against the shaking body between them.

"Oh--God--" Sam gasped. "Dean," he sobbed.

"I gotcha," Dean whispered, smoothing Sam's hair. "You're alright, Sammy."

Sam huddled closer to his brother, if that was even possible. Cas dabbed the washcloth over his friend's face, hushing gently. Sam let out a wild laugh that had Dean looking, panicked, at his boyfriend.

"I still want to use," Sam half-laughed, half-sobbed. "How screwed up is that?"

"It's normal," Cas answered, trying to ignore Dean's devastated face.

"I--I want it. I can't-- _stop_ wanting it." He pushed his cheek against Dean's shirt, eyes scrunched tight. "Sometimes when I--used I'd--take too--much. I'd--mix a bunch and--hope--I'd--hope I'd--I didn't--want to--wake--up." A tear escaped his eye. "God--Dean--I--sometimes--I don't--want to--wake--up."

Dean closed his eyes, a lone tear escaping. He slowly, gently smoothed his younger brother's hair, tucking stray strands behind his ear, brushing bangs off his forehead. "So...why'd you stop?" he murmured.

"'Cause--you said--said I couldn't--come back." Sam let out a sob. "I--I wanted to--to come--back--"

"Shhh...you're back," Dean's voice broke. Cas engulfed them both under his arm.

"You're home, Sam," he said firmly, watching Dean bury his chin in his brother's hair. "This is your home. With us. You can always come here."

"I—miss—them—so—much," Sam sobbed. "I--destroy--every--thing."

" _No_. Sammy--"

"Sam, you're sick," Cas wiped Sam's sweaty brow again. "That's okay."

"I--I lied I--stole I--hurt you. Both--and you've been--nothing--nothing but--good to me."

"You were high," Dean murmured. "You were hooked on something and it altered your thinking. It took you over, but it's not you."

"You'd say that--about Dad."

"Goddamnit, Sammy, Dad never fought! He took Mom's death as a license to do anything he wanted." Dean grasped his brother's shoulders and shoved him back into Cas. "Please, Sammy, let it go. This... _guilt_ is going to kill you before the drugs ever do."

"We're your family, Sam," Cas said softly. "We know it's hard, but you've been clean and sober eight months. It'll only get easier."

"Re--re--relapsed, to-to-tonight," he gasped, shuddering.

"No," Cas snapped. "Relapse is willingly going back completely--physically, emotionally, psychologically. This is not that. It's a--hiccup."

" _Hiccup_?" Sam and Dean said at the same time. Cas shrugged.

"Uh..."

"That your--professional--opin--in--inion--ion, doctor?"

"Christ, what do you think he calls people with actual hiccups?"

"Ba--ba--babies."

"God, what does he call _babies_?"

"What happened to Sam being on _my_ side?" Cas said with fake hurt. Dean grinned.

"Sorry, but he was mine first."

"Ugh, no--no--gay--jokes." He shuddered. "Bad enough I don't--don't--know where--these--sheets have--been."

"Right, because heteros don't have sex on _sheets_."

"No--no--no--no--sex! No--brother--sex!"

“So, is Cas sex fair game?”

“Cas—is—a—brother.”

Dean made a face. “Thanks, Sammy. I’m never going to get laid again.”

Sam smiled—a small, sweaty, sweet smile. Undoubtedly, one of Cas’ favorite things.   
  


**Then**

Cas didn’t know what had sparked the fight, or what was exchanged during it. Even Missouri couldn’t get it out of them—it was too painful, and shameful, for either of them to speak of.

All Cas knows is he came home and the brothers were both bloody, sweaty, and wild with fury. Sam used his slightly larger frame to slam his brother to the floor and got him in a choke hold, only to take a ferocious punch to the chin.

“Stop it!” Cas had wailed, throwing himself between them. “Sam, Dean—not _this_!”

“ _I’m_ the one in denial?”Sam had shouted in his brother's face.

“You’re a thug and a liar and not anyone I’d want to be blood with!”

“Stop!” Cas pleaded, his own heart breaking. It was too much like his own home, his own brothers. Not the Winchesters. Not _his_ Winchesters.

“Forget it,” Sam hissed. “I’m leaving. You don't know me--neither one of you do. You never have, and you never will!"

"You walk out," Dean roared, "don't you-- _ever--_ come back."

Sam had spat at their feet. He had slammed the door.   
  


**Now**   
  


"Cas?"

Cas turned and grinned at Sam. "Hey. You feel you could eat something? I was making eggs."

Sam shivered but nodded. "Can I help?"

"Sure. You want to put coffee on?"

"God, yes." He offered his own small smile and moved toward the coffee maker. Cas went back to the stove, pulling down plates as he went. "Dean still out?"

"Yeah. He was up with me around four."

"Sorry. I don't even remember falling asleep."

"It was your night off." Sam's voice faltered. He spooned coffee into the filter and started it brewing, eyes on the doorway. "Cas...I'm so sorry."

"Sam, you didn't do anything wrong."

"No, you...you have your own family. You and Dean..." his voice hitched. "I wanted him to...to be happy and not...have to think...about me. And here you...you take care of me as much as him. It's not what you signed on for. I'm so damn sorry."

Cas just smiled. "Sam," he soothed, "you know what a mess my family is. They take off the second there's the littlest disagreement. Two of my brothers stormed out once when we were trying decide between white lights and colored lights on the Christmas tree. Seeing you and Dean...you're the family I always dreamed of." Sam snorted in disbelief. "I want to fit in with you two. You'd do anything for each other. You take care of each other."

"I'm dead weight," Sam said miserably, slumping against the fridge. "Dean's so strong. I've wanted to be like him my whole life."

"Going through rehab? Staying sober? Carrying on through all the hits life's given you? You're doing better than I would. Better than anyone." Cas grinned and dumped the eggs onto a plate. "You're my friend too, Sam."

"But not your brother." The younger Winchester scrubbed at his eyes. "You have so little time off...you shouldn't have to spend it worried about me."

"I don't. I _choose_ to. Because I want to learn what it's like to have a family that endures everything and anything, and you and Dean teach me that every day. And it's better than what I envisioned."

Sam stared at him with such shock and admiration and sudden, complete love that Cas couldn't help but beam. And then his over-tired boyfriend cleared his throat from the doorway.

"If you two are done menstruating, I'd love some Goddamn breakfast," he grumbled. Sam smiled and glanced at Cas, who tossed him a wink and went back to the stove.


	3. Chapter 3

**Then**

Four weeks Sam was gone. His big brother had told him to never come back and, as far as he seemed to be concerned, he had washed his hands of them.

Four weeks Dean drank himself unconscious every night. He'd told his little brother never to come back and, as far as he seemed to be concerned, his brother had washed his hands of him.   
  
Apparently, without Sam, Dean could find no reason to maintain a working liver.

Night after night, Cas had sat up until early morning, ensuring his boyfriend made it through his drunken sleep, praying, for once, that the phone wouldn't ring, or a knock wouldn't come at their front door, because he was confident, if it did, that it meant Sam was dead.   
  
His own focus had been shot, fear for both the Winchesters encompassing his every thought. He had dreaded hearing of a tall, brunette John Doe being admitted to the emergency room, without insurance or family. He had put in alerts at all the local hospitals that he should be contacted regarding anyone who remotely fit Sam's description.

He had feared leaving Dean alone. Had feared even more that the drinking would spiral out of control. He hinted as much, tried to remind Dean that this was what led both their fathers astray, and, for the first time ever, saw his boyfriend's fist raised in his direction.

"You hit me and I'll leave you," he had warned. "You hit me and you'll be _him_."  
  
It may have been low to invoke John Winchester. But, in that moment, grief-stricken and lost and drunk and enraged, Dean had never been closer to his father.   
  
Dean's fist had, slowly, uncurled. He'd let out a heart-broken sob and staggered away, chanting "Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," over and over and over. Cas had waited less than a minute before moving forward to hold him. Dean had cried in his arms for so long Cas had feared he'd pass out.

Together, they had dumped the rest of the alcohol in the house down the sink.

The night after, they had made love slowly and sweetly, re-learning, re-trusting. Cas had held Dean tight, all through the following few painful nights.

And then, the phone had rung. Doctor Alan Montgomery, from Rosemount Rehabilitation Center. Sam Winchester had appeared asking for full-time residency.

Cas had informed him that all charges should be billed to him.  
 

**Now**

Sam managed some eggs and dry toast. Dean ate like he’d been starved for days. Cas was surprised how hungry he was himself—food had been the farthest thing from their minds, and not just because Sam had spent most of the night vomiting.

After breakfast, the Winchesters did the dishes while Cas checked his voicemail. Fortunately, he hadn’t missed anything urgent, though he made a few notes for tests and medications to adjust on shift. Dean came out of the kitchen, Sam trailing along behind, a little too close.

“I’m gonna get Sammy in the shower,” he said. Sam made a disgusted face.

“I can get a shower on my own, you freak.”

“Well I've got to get these sheets changed and they aren't enough for a full load. Cas, you got laundry?”

“In the bathroom basket.”

“On it.” Dean eyed his brother warily. Sam made it halfway up the stairs before he stopped, swayed. Dean was already bounding up behind him and instantly gripped his shoulders.

“You okay?”

“Fine.” He took two more steps and swayed backward.

“Sam!”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re gonna take us both down these stairs, you big idiot.”

Sam grabbed at his chest, his breathing speeding up. Cas realized he was having palpitations—an all too common side effect.

“Dean,” he cautioned. The elder Winchester rolled his eyes.

“Alright, bro. Easy does it. C’mon, we got this.”

Sam reached out a shaky hand and grabbed at Dean’s shirt. Dean, ever the big brother, got an arm around him and helped him the rest of the way up the steps, talking softly at the top. A few minutes later he heard the shower turn on, and Dean’s footsteps going between the bathroom, their room, and the guest room. He hesitated before putting in a call to Alan, Sam’s PCP, and debated leaving a message for Missouri before deciding it was best for Sam to make that call—not because he was scared of her retribution, no sir—and set about stripping the sheets off the fold-out.

Dean appeared, swearing under his breath, an armful of dirty laundry threatening to spill out of his arms. “Dumbass won’t admit he’s dizzy as hell.”

“I can’t imagine where he learned such aberrant resistance to support.”

“Screw you. I gave him baths and changed his diapers. He doesn’t get to have pride with me.”

“I imagine he’s feeling a lot of embarrassment right now.” Cas followed behind Dean in order to open the washer, bedding in his own arms.

“Christ, Cas. I heard what you said, man, and I’m trying to believe in him and all that, but I want him to be able to tell me when he needs me.”

“He called you from Rosemount. He calls, faithfully, daily. You know how very much he relies on you.”

As if on some sick cue, he heard a crash above them. Dean had already dumped in his share of the laundry, and practically knocked Cas backwards into the dryer in an effort to get to the stairs. Cas was close behind him, but Dean waved him off as he pounded on the bathroom door and bellowed “Sammy?”

A beat. Then: “Dean.”

It was weak, ashamed, defeated. Dean went in and shut Cas out. He returned downstairs and had just started the washer when the phone rang.

“It’s Cas,” he sighed.

“Cas, Alan Montgomery.”

“Alan. Thank you for calling back so quickly.”

“I had Sam on my charts this morning. The clinic says he went home with you and Dean?”

“Yes. He’s stable, though a little weak right now.”

“Normally I’d call bull looking at all this. But lucky for you, those three idiots who dumped their stash in the shaker cooked up their own little cocktail, got sick, and wound up on our doorstep this morning. They said by the time they made it down to grab it Sam had already eaten a bunch. It was pretty potent stuff.”

“We discovered that last night.”

It was Alan’s turn to sigh. “Sam really has been trying. He has a bad habit of trying to dumb down how bad his symptoms are though. I imagine he also tries to dumb down his cravings.”

“We’ve noticed.” Cas smiled affectionately. “I’m afraid it runs in the Winchester family.” Alan barked a laugh.

“Well, that’s Missouri’s territory, and I learned long ago not to step near it. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Alan.”

“Thank _you_. Can’t say I’m sad to have his bed empty.”

Cas hung up. Dean came stomping down the stairs a moment later, looking ready to punch something.

“He fell,” he growled, stalking toward the kitchen. “We got icepacks?”

“Freezer. He hit his head?”

“Of course. Felt dizzy, got out of the shower, dropped like a drunken brick. But get this—pulled on his pajama bottoms before he let me in.”

Cas lost his battle with a smile. Dean glared at him. “Don’t you start.”

“I’m sure you’d be all too happy to let Sam and I assist you while you lie on the floor, soaked and stark naked.”

“Shut it.”

“I can bring up some Gatorade and he can stay up there and rest.”

“He doesn’t want to. He also says that he thinks the steam should have triggered the smoke detectors, so I guarantee we’re going to have to do checks this afternoon. There’s no way we’re going to get him to stay up there until we go to bed.”

Cas lowered his voice. “Alan said the three from Sam’s house have been admitted. They confirmed his story.”

Dean stopped on his way to the stairs. “What’d they dump?”

“Heroine. A fairly strong batch, according to Alan.”

“God.” Dean’s face twisted in sudden grief. Cas crossed the room and touched his boyfriend’s arm. “Cas—”

“He’s going to be alright,” he said firmly. “He can come here, Dean. He can live here. He just needs to say the word.”

Dean squeezed his hand, hard. Then took up off the stairs, ice in hand and determination on his face.

 

**Then**

Sam had called from Rosemount, voice shaky and hoarse and all-too clearly in early withdraw.

"Cas?" he had gasped.

"Hey," Cas had smiled, hoping warmth carried into his voice. "Don't worry, I've given the full steam ahead. Billing it to my insurance."

"They're--they're gonna--lock me down." Cas could _hear_ the younger man's terror. "I'm--I'm already--sick."

"It isn't fun," Cas had soothed. "It's hell, in fact. But it passes, Sam. And when you come out the other side, we will be there."

Sam's breath had hitched. "Cas...please...tell me. Does...does Dean...does he hate me?"

"No. Sam--"

"Will he--can he--ever--"

"We're coming down," Cas had said firmly. "Sit tight."

Dean had nearly crawled out of skin on the drive down to the clinic. Sam had been in the admittance waiting room, body already shaking and sweaty with early withdrawal, sneezing, crying, and scratching at his arms and legs. He took one look at Dean and staggered to his feet, stumbling forward like a damaged creature in one of the brothers' beloved sci-fi movies.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he had sobbed. Dean had wrapped him in his arms and Sam had promptly sneezed on his brother's coat.

"Shhhh," Dean had murmured, closed his eyes and layed a hand on the back of Sam's dark, dirty head. "It's okay, Sammy."

"Dean...don't...I shouldn't...I'm--"

"I don't hate you. I could never hate you." Dean had pulled back and gripped the sides of his younger brother's head, brushed tears with his thumbs, offered him a half-smile.

"I'm scared," Sam had gasped.

"Just a day or two. And it'll be out of you. And we'll be here, every day if we can. And you can call. And when you're all cleaned up, you can come home."

Sam had sneezed again. "You'll--let--me?"

Dean had drawn a deep breath. "I never should have said what I did. I won't give up on you. You fight and I will fight with you. You just got to do this. I know you can, Sammy."

"I--wish--" Sam's voice had broke. His body had convulsed. Dean had guided him to a sofa and sat with his hands on his biceps. "Wish--you--could--be there."

"Me too," Dean had pulled his brother back against his chest, laying his chin on the top of his head. "Me too, buddy." Sam had sobbed against him. "Shhh," Dean had whispered, rocking them slightly, "it's okay. It's gonna be okay."

"I...miss you...so...much..."

"I gotcha," Dean had murmured, a single tear escaping. "I'm here."

Cas had retreated toward the nurse's station, letting the brothers alone.

"Here for Winchester?" a doctor had asked.

"Yes. I'm Dr. Cas Morgan."

"Alan Montgomery, Sam's PCP." He had glanced toward the waiting room. "Glad you guys made it down. We've got to move him in ten."

"He's not a bad kid," Cas had pleaded.

"Been in this business twenty-some years. I can tell the rotten apples from the good." He had handed Cas a copy of a folder. "If you want to look. We're going to cross treat him. The alcohol's bad, but I wouldn't say he's physically hooked. Still, we're going to keep a close eye." He had glanced to the brothers in the waiting room. "It's not fun, but it's not fatal," he said gently. "He came on his own, no signs of withdrawal. Said he had to get clean. That's way better than the court ultimatums most people show up with."

"I'd like to be kept up to date with his charts."

"We can do that."

"He lost two girlfriends and his father in two years."

"I understand."

"The first died in a fire. A freak electrical thing in their ceiling. He was out studying."

"Doctor--"

"Their father was an alcoholic. Their mother died when they were children. Their father beat them."

"As I said--"

"He had a full ride to school. He wanted to be a lawyer. He had an interview for law school two days before his girlfriend burnt to death in her sleep."

"Doctor, please--"

"Cas. My name is Cas. His name is Sam. His brother is Dean. Their names were Jess and John and Madison. And--"

"Cas," the had doctor guided him into the hallway, a gentle hand on his arm. "Listen. I can't heal him emotionally. Any of them. But every man and woman who comes through that door and is assigned to me gets the very best physical treatment I'm able to provide. It's going to be hard, but I'm going to make it as easy as I can. And when he's well, I will help oversee his psychological counseling. Be available for follow-ups. Advise on his meds." He had squeezed Cas's arm. "working late nights with addicts is one of the least glamorous tracks in our profession. No one chooses this path unless they've loved someone whose been lost down it."

Cas had felt his chest hitch. Hadn't realized he'd started crying. Behind him, he had heard Sam cry out as Dean's voice rose.

"Take care of him," he managed. Alan squeezed his arm and moved into the waiting area. He said something too low for Cas to hear, and Sam nodded as Dean helped him to his feet. The doctor stepped respectfully away and Cas watched as Dean leaned close, brushing his brother's tears with his thumbs, fixing unruly hair behind his ears, and then pulling him down to press a quick kiss on his brow. Sam clutched at him desperately, burying his face in his brother's neck for a moment, before slowly releasing him and making his way to Alan, pausing only at the double doors to stare back at Dean, lips and body shaking, tears streaming down his face. Dean gave his warmest, most accepting smile, the first one Cas had ever fallen in love with. Sam looked toward him, than back at his brother, clearly trying to draw strength. Dean nodded in his brother's direction. Sam shuddered, a sob escaping, before looking toward Alan and disappearing behind the doors.

Cas and Dean had cried together on the bench seat of the Impala, knowing that, inside, Sam would soon be screaming for them.   
  


**Now**

After Dean got Sam sorted, the brothers ended up back on the sofa. Dean was sitting up once more, but Sam dutifully took his valium, curled up by his elder brother’s hip, and drifted off to sleep. Cas switched the laundry to the dryer and, when it buzzed, brought the still-warm clothes to Dean, for the two of them to fold.

“When Sam wakes up, he should call Missouri,” Cas murmured.

“Dude, she’s going to fry him up and eat him for breakfast.”

“Just because _you’re_ scared of Missouri doesn’t mean _Sam_ is.”

“I’m not scared of anyone or anything.”

“Then how about we visit my parents this summer?”

Dean made a face. “Low blow, dude.” Cas smiled and finished folding his shirt.

“You got to go in tonight?”

“I do.” He looked back toward the sleeping Sam. “He’ll be fine.”

“Will you?”

Cas looked from his sleeping friend, to Dean’s warm, worried look, and smiled. “Think I’m good.”

 

**Then**

The first few weeks after Sam's withdrawal, he was so physically and emotionally depressed he barely spoke. He refused to leave his bed for meals or groups or for morning meds, and wound up on a glucose line and suicide watch.   
  
"The anti-depressants will take some time to kick in," Missouri, Sam's primary therapist, assured them. "When they do, they'll probably need adjusting. Sam's altered his entire chemistry. His body ain't gonna let him forget it overnight."

Dean called her a host of abominable words on the drive home, but one week later Sam had stood in the waiting area, looking thin and pale and exhausted and sick, but _standing_. He had attempted to eat a semi-normal dinner with them and attempted a bit of small talk, and Dean grumbled a little less about Missouri and her "psycho-babble."

The doctors had adjusted and readjusted and reissued Sam's medication in an effort to combat the worst of the depression, anxiety, and withdrawal, and as a result Sam's emotions became firecrackers: you never knew what color you're going to get, and when, but when you get it, it's wild and hot and goes on longer than you imagined it could last. Some nights Sam had woken them sobbing so hard he almost can't breathe, unable to voice anything but "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" over and over and over. Other times it was his obsessive checks, or he'd flown into a rage about lock-down and wanted them to come get him. He had called convinced his nightmares were premonitions and begged them not to drive, or go to work, or go to the grocery store until he deems it safe. He called heartbroken about Jess, Madison, and his father. He called manic and laughing over things that make no sense.

And then depression would hit and he wouldn't call at all.

They had learned to deal. They take turns on Sam's checks, double-team him in his rages, let Cas take the lead explaining the science behind his nightmares, let Dean take the lead on anything involving their father. The nights Sam called crying too hard to speak Cas spoons Dean while his boyfriend hums rock ballads to his devastated brother, letting the gentle, deep voice sooth them all. And when he gets depressed, they went to the ward and sat on his bed and took turns holding him until he managed to get on his feet.

 

**Now**

When Sam woke once more, he stumbled blearily into the bathroom, washed his face and hands, and emerged to shyly, sweetly, ask if they minded if he helped himself to the Gatorade.

“Dude,” Dean said, “we only keep that shit in the house for you. Dr. Evil here wouldn’t let it past the front door otherwise.”

“God forbid I attempt to moderate your brother’s sugar and red-meat intake,” Cas said. Sam smiled.

“Cas, you should know to pick your battles.”

“If I can’t eat a hamburger and a slice of pie, I don’t want to live to be a hundred anyway,” Dean sniped. “Besides, Cas isn’t _that_ concerned with your well-being. He wants _you_ to call Missouri.”

Sam shrugged. “I need to. She’ll want to know about this. I should call Alan too.” Cas grinned. Dean glared at him. “You’re _still_ afraid of her?”

“I’m not _afraid_ of anything!”  
  
“He said he’d visit my parents,” Cas said.

“Does he intend to fly there? Don’t think so.”

“Fine," Dean snapped. "Do you want _me_ to call Missouri?”

“No, I will. She’s paid to be nice to me.” Sam stepped into the kitchen, a little slowly, a bit shaky, but pretty good nonetheless. Dean sighed and looked to Cas, who gave him a reassuring smile.

“He’s doing very well,” he said.

“Thanks to you.”

“ _Dean_.”

“I mean it, Cas. You don’t have to do this.”

“He’s family,” Cas said, feeling his own nerves hum at the sudden fear of rejection. Dean seemed to understand, reached over and rubbed his thumb lightly over Cas’ knuckles.

“All joking aside—if you want me to meet the parents I will. But I’m not flying there.”

 Cas felt a sudden, sharp sadness. “I don’t,” he mumbled. “It’s not worth it.” Dean cocked an eyebrow.

“What do you mean?” he asked--slowly, defensively. 

“It’s not you.”                                      

 “That is the oldest, most clichéd line in the book of I-want-to-dump-yous. What do you _mean_?”

 “I mean...your definition of family is Sam. And his is you. You try to be better for one another. Try to understand and support one another.  That’s not my family, Dean. You and Sam are my family now.”

“They’ll always be your family, Cas,” Dean said softly. “You’re of them, from them. Just like I’m of and from an abusive, alcoholic prick. So’s Sam. You can’t outrun it.”

Cas glanced to the kitchen, hear Sam begin to speak into the phone.  “I know I can’t,” he murmured. “But I’d rather run with people who _care_.”

Dean reached across the space between them and lightly rubbed his shoulder. “Dude...did you just quote ‘Sex and the City?’”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous.”   
  
“I’m pretty sure you just did.”  
  
“I’ve never even watched it.”  
  
“I’m gonna look it up. If you quoted Carrie Bradshaw we are breaking up.”  
  
“I never—” Cas frowned. “Wait--how would you _know_ if I did?”  
  
“I know my pop culture.”  
  
“You know not only what show I may have quoted, but which character, by first and last name, I may have inadvertently plagiarized from?”  
  
“I watch ‘Talk Soup.’”  
  
“You are _not_ cheating on me with those four. I won’t allow it.”  
  
“So any _other_ four are game?”  
  
“Of course. I’m a liberal man.”  
  
Dean laughed. From the kitchen, they heard Sam laugh too. “You’re the biggest dork. Lucky for you, I like dorks.”  
  
“Lucky for _me_ , I like terrible pickup lines.”

        

**Then**

When Sam had finally emerged from his nearly immobile depressive state, he had rocketed into an equally crippling anxious one.

The doctors had shown them a chart of mental illness and indicated that anxiety was hovering above depression in terms of severity, but Dean and Cas had to question it.

Sam had called them multiple times a day, in severe distress. He had been constantly convinced that they were in danger, or were about to be. He had woken them in the night, nearly hyperventilating, demanding that Dean get up and check that all their windows were locked--and he wanted the phone next to the lock so he could _hear_ the click and be sure--or that the smoke detectors had good fresh batteries, or that the gas on their stove was firmly turned off. He had begged Cas to check Dean's heart rate, his temperature, blood-pressure, pupils, feel his glands, take vitamins, and report back numerically on all his findings before repeating the examination on himself.

At first they tried to talk him down, spending sometimes hours on the phone assuring and placating and calming before ultimately following Sam's obsessive instructions to get him to relax. Eventually they gave up even trying to negotiate and tried to assuage his fears as quickly as possible. They got used to finding each other carrying a stool and holding the phone up next to the smoke-detectors so Sam could hear the test, or clicking the locks on the windows and doors (Sam claimed he could hear the difference), and, on more than one occasion, Cas had found Dean on his back under the Impala in the middle of the night, assuring Sam that their cars had solid brake lines and full oil and no, the engines were not going to spontaneously combust the next time they went to turn them over.

Yes, Dean and Cas were healthy. Yes, Dean and Cas were safe. Yes, Dean and Cas were going to be there when he woke up, and the day after that, and the day after that.

Sam still called.

 

**Now**

“Missouri said she heard from the clinic that the other three were admitted,” Sam reported, settling down on the sofa bed, Gatorade in hand.

“That’s it?” Dean scoffed.

“She also said it’s good she heard from them first, because she wouldn’t have believed a word out of my damn fool mouth otherwise.”

 Cas smiled. For many people, Missouri's take-no-prisoners style may be perceived as offensive, but the Winchesters appreciated her tough-love. And, to those like Sam, who tried hard, he had seen her warm, maternal side. She deeply cared about her clients, and she showed great pride in Sam's efforts.   
  
"She wants to see me first thing Monday. She said she'd get Alan to get in touch with my boss."  
  
"I'll take you in," Dean said.   
  
"Thanks." Sam looked down a bit shyly. "Both of you. I really...I didn't think I could do it yesterday."  
  
Cas glanced at Dean. "Sam...we discussed yesterday the possibility of you coming to live here."  
  
"No." Sam shook his head. "I mean...thank you. I know you'll let me come here. But I'd be a burden."  
  
"Sammy--"   
  
"No, Dean, I would. You need your space, and I..." he swallowed, hard. "I've sat back and let you fix my life way for way too long. You need to let me try and fix my own."  
  
"I hate you being around all those other addicts all the time."  
  
"They're not all bad news, though. I've made friends. This is just a slip. I'll be better. I swear. I didn't mean to. It won't happen again. I can--"  
  
"Calm down," Dean soothed. "We're not mad. We trust you."  
  
Sam didn't answer. Dean waved him over, patting the sofabed next to him. Sam glanced between the two of them, as if ensuring that they weren't luring him into a brawl, then took a seat besides his brother.   
  
"Thank you," Sam murmured.  
  
"You can always come here."  
  
"I know." He shoved his brother playfully. "Quit being a girl. There's a game on in ten minutes."  
  
"Dumbass bitch," Dean grumbled, winking at Cas. Cas grinned back. Dean was the only one in the world who could make a line of swear words sound like a love poem.   
  
  


**Then**

To have said Sam emerged good as new was a lie.

Sam wasn’t new. And he wasn’t good. He was thin and pale and sick and depressed and facing so much emotional and physical work it seemed impossible he'd ever be back to normal.

But, he _was_ clean of all things illegal. And--if you counted certain pills and booze--many legal, yet abused, things.

Missouri, who had led both Sam’s private, individual sessions, and the family therapy for the three of them, broke the news that Sam would be admitted to a halfway house. Dean had reacted badly.

“He can come live with me,” he’d argued.

“With us,” Cas had echoed.

“With us,” Dean had snapped.

“He can,” Missouri had agreed. “He’s indicated to me his choice is a halfway house.”

“There’s no reason for that. He’s sober. He should come home.”

“It’s his choice, Dean.”

“He’s proven he can’t _make_ good choices!”

“Ah," Missouri had said. "So, going to school? Dating Jessica? Coming here? Staying clean? They were all bad choices?"

“Trying coke? Drinking himself sick? Living on the street?” Dean had mocked.

From the corner, Sam had, finally, raised his voice. “You’re both right,” he said, soft, ashamed, and, when he raised his head, his eyes were wet. “I know. But, Dean...I’ve lied, and stolen, and cheated you. You finally have a _life_ , now. With someone who’s devoted, just to you. And a home that’s all yours. And I...I don’t trust myself. I need to stay with people who get it.”

“I get it,” Dean had snapped.

 “You don’t,” Sam had said, face softening. “I know you want to. I know how hard you try. But you _can’t_ , Dean. And that’s okay. I don’t _want_ you to. I want...you and Cas. Together. Without having to worry about me. Please?”

“A bunch of addicts in one house can keep you from using?” Dean had nearly shouted.

“No one can keep me from using but _me_ , Dean,” Sam had said sadly, “I know we don’t have any reason to, but if I’m going to do this, I’m going to have to trust me. And I’m going to need you to try and do that too.”    
  
Dean's face had fallen. "Sammy...I do."  
  
"You don't. You _shouldn't_. I haven't earned it. I've _wrecked_ it. But...I can't do this without you."  
  
Cas had tried very, very hard to keep his tears in check. Dean had done the same.  
  
  


**Now**

Dean made them lunch—dry toast for Sam, turkey with tomato and lettuce and fat-free mayonnaise for Cas, and roast-beef and cheese for himself.   
  
They ate quietly in front of the television, Sam pressed close to his brother, Cas pressed close to them both so they could all fit on the sofabed.   
  
Sam polished off a large Gatorade and started in on another before falling asleep, head on Dean’s shoulder.   
  
The elder Winchester gently eased him down until he was relaxed on the mattress, settling on the pillows himself, resting his cheek on his brother’s head.   
  
Cas finished his sandwich, leaned back against the cushions, and felt his own eyelids begin to drift downward.

 

**Then**

Sam had walked them to the parking lot. Dean had gripped his brother in a fierce hug, voice low and raspy with emotion.  
  
“I’ll have your back, no matter what,” he had murmured. “But if you need to, you come to me. You hear me? After all this, Sammy, _please._ Come to me.”

Sam had nodded. “I will, Dean,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’ll need to.”  
  


 

**Now**

Cas had to be at the hospital in three hours.

Sam was sleeping: calmly, peacefully, without any shakes.   
  
Dean was stretched flat on the bed against him, a drowsy hand on his brother’s shoulder.   
  
So many years on hellishly long shifts had taught Cas to adapt, and he thought _what the hell_ and slid down beside the two Winchesters, accepting the blanket Dean tossed over the three of them, scooting a little closer to Sam's broad back.   
  
Dean reached over his brother's body to entwine his fingers with Cas'.   
  
Cas squeezed back.   
  
In that moment, Sam was their brother and their child and their best friend in one, and they were lovers and brothers and parents at the same time, and maybe it is the most screwed up thing in the world, that three grown men are lying in one bed, with multiple roles and responsibilities, and maybe everyone can't be saved, and maybe everyone will label them co-dependent and entangled and reject them, but right then they're three people who love and need one another, and they're a family, and it's enough. 


End file.
